Meeting Joshua Reynolds
by Damagoed
Summary: Twenty year old Mycroft Holmes decides to take over the world. Fortunately for the world someone stops him.
1. Chapter 1

There was a moment in his life when he had considered holding the world to ransom. Not because he wanted money or power or recognition. Just because he was bored with everyone.

He'd looked out of the window of his Cambridge College Digs, looked at the leafy trees and the quad and then back down at his essay. It wasn't his best work. But it would get a first anyway. Even his worst was better than everyone else's best.

He'd looked at the picture on the desk, smiling at him from a frozen moment in time. He'd reached out his fingers to stroke the face hoping for warm flesh and felt nothing but cold glass. Laughter had filtered in from the quad as people went about their boring, pointless little lives, with their boring pointless, dull little brains. Oblivious to the heartbroken individual seated at his desk a few feet from them.

Oblivious to the fact he could make them all feel how he did. He could make everyone numb. Make everyone feel that overpowering coldness that reached from the tips of your fingers to the deepest recesses of your heart.

He'd put down his pen and pushed back his chair. In that moment he had made up his mind. He was going to burn the heart out of everyone in the world.

The evening sunshine, which danced on the heads of everyone else like a benediction from the heavens never touched him. It never made him feel warm and comfortable. It only ever made his fair skin itchy and red. He'd turned the corner, the idea now forming perfectly and fully in his head.

He'd been halfway to London, enjoying the deserted peace of first class when a large man in a perfectly tailored suit had sat down opposite him. The man, with his carefully groomed hair and silver-blue eyes smiled broadly, almost predatorily, before reaching into his inside pocket and bringing out a leather covered notebook.

"It would be a great pity to ruin what I am sure will be a long and illustrious career before it begins Mr. Holmes." The man had the clipped vowels of an aristocrat, but there was an undercurrent of danger about him.

"Who are you?"

"You tell me. Who do you think I am?"

"Secret service. No. Considerably more important. Closer contact with high ranking members of government., royalty. You don't do leg work. Until today. That suit is tailored by Lucifer's of Jermyn Street, you can tell by the sleeve buttons. But it's older. You thought you might be getting dirty. You thought I might be trouble. You've come prepared. Normally you have someone to do this for you. It's very flattering you think I'm worth the effort. That gold ring is for show. You're not married. But in your position it is advantageous for people to believe you are. The name you are about to give me is the one you are known by. But it isn't your real name. You don't work for the government. You are the government."

"Splendid. They did tell me you were quite exceptional." The big man licked his lips, looking as though he was contemplating a dessert menu.

"I could do it you know?"

"Hold the world to ransom? Yes I'm quite sure you could. Which is why we are having this little chat. Someone with your obvious talents is far less of a danger to us inside the tent, as it were. I can help you."

"No one can help."

"Andrew's death wasn't your fault. But I can put you in a position where you can find out whose fault it is. And take whatever revenge you see fit."

"You seem to be labouring under the impression I have feelings. I don't. I'm numb. Frozen."

"You can use that. Sadly in this line of work, caring is not an advantage. All lives end, all hearts are broken. But not all can be revenged."

"What about my family? What do I tell them?"

"Nothing. The first rule is you do not talk about what you do. In fact we don't talk about anything. As far as everyone is concerned you are civil servant. A Whitehall Desk Jockey, I believe the phrase is these days. But one day. Well one day you will run the world. Yes or no?"

"Yes." The answer was simple.

"My name is Joshua Reynolds. Welcome to the Diogenes Club, Mycroft."


	2. Chapter 2

He looked at himself in the full length mirror. The stitches were still mending in the wound on his shoulder. They would leave an ugly scar. That no one but him would see. It hurt. He had refused to take the pain medication they had given him. Pain was good. It kept you focussed.

He'd opted for a snug fitting pair of knitted silk trunks. They showed off his backside to full advantage. Not that it was a primary concern of his, but he had discovered very quickly he could use his looks to get what he wanted. A smile here, a nod and an arched eyebrow there and the great and the good of the back rooms of Whitehall were falling over themselves to do what he wanted.

They saw him as a challenge, he supposed. Something unattainable.

He pulled the thick cotton shirt on carefully so as not to disturb the razor creases in the sleeves. The material pulled tight for a moment as he flexed into it and then did the buttons up with quick, precise movements.

The cufflinks were his Grandfather's.

The suit was from Jermyn Street. Perfectly tailored from the soft black wool of carefully selected sheep. Or something like that. Perfectly tailored to fit his six foot two inch, elegant frame accentuating his broad shoulders and long legs and diverting attention from the slight misalignment of his hipbones.

You never underestimated the power of a nicely tailored suit.

When he'd first gone into the place, on a recommendation, they had asked whether he would be interested in modelling for them. His hair, they explained, would look so nice in the black and white photographs. He had of course politely declined. After all, it would not do to be noticed.

His hair. That was another thing. He'd toned it down with a slightly darker shade of henna after he had been referred to at Admiralty House as a Flame Haired Beauty. It took quite a lot to make him blush the same coppery crimson as his hair. That did it. That and the blatant proposition by a very senior Rear Admiral. Who had grabbed his rear. That was only his second week.

He checked his reflection. Running a critical eye over every last detail. Perfect.

And then it was time.

The small dog rubbed itself excessively over the leg of his trousers, smothering them in a dusting of beige hairs. He took this to be a good sign. They had warned him about the dogs. The rubbing dog carefully deposited a small squeaky bone on the toe of his handmade leather Oxfords and looked up hopefully. He stooped down to retrieve the bone and heard the door behind him open.

"Good evening Mr Holmes."

"Good evening Your Majesty." He turned quickly and bowed. Her Majesty readjusted her gaze from where it had been resting on his buttocks to smile up at him.

"It is very sad news about dear Sir Joshua." She indicated he should sit. She smiled. She poured tea and offered him cake, insisting he had the largest slice of Battenberg.

"It is indeed Ma'am." He took a sip of tea. Her Majesty was staring at his crotch. Those silk trunks were very snug.

"At least he went doing something he enjoyed."

"Yes Ma'am." Doing someone he enjoyed would be more accurate, but Mycroft was not about to correct the Queen on that matter.

"Sadly Mr Holmes, life goes on." She handed him the cake. Balanced on top of the moist sponge was a gold ring.

"Majesty?"

"Mr Holmes, you are now Joshua Reynolds." She smiled, staring into his eyes. The Corgi dropped the bone on his foot with a squeak.

"Yes Ma'am."

He slipped the ring onto his finger. It was a perfect fit as it shone in the light from the fire.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n To all you lovely people who have asked, this little tale takes place in its own private universe and is not connected in any way to Insomnia. Sir Lucifer belongs to the wonderfully talented Mr Gatiss.**

The ancient man at the Royal Academy was staring at a Titian as though he was trying to remove the paint with his eyes. That was until he swivelled his head, owl like, to watch Mycroft's progress through the gallery. Mycroft was wearing his casual suit. The grey one. The one with the slightly tapered trousers and the rather daringly non conformist lapels.

"The last time I saw an arse like that it was on a marble statue in Pompeii." Perhaps he didn't mean to say it out loud. Then again maybe he did.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft stopped and turned to face the man. It was easy to see that perhaps fifty years ago the man would have been a striking beauty with high cheekbones and slim hips and possibly raven hair. Now he looked like a bird of prey. An old vulture looking to pick off something young and tasty.

"God. So am I!" The man sighed. "If I was thirty years younger you wouldn't stand a chance."

"That's what they all say." Mycroft looked bored. The constant attention was getting rather tedious.

"So which one are you?"

"Pardon?"

"Which one are you?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh. You're the chosen one. Should have known you'd be a redhead." It was said without any trace of malice. "Didn't realise you'd be quite so pretty though." A small sigh.

"Can I do anything for you Sir?" Mycroft had learnt to start off polite and antagonise later. It was something he was attempting, with little success, to teach his younger brother.

"Thirty years ago perhaps. Now all I can do is look." The man gestured to the paintings hanging on the walls. "Can't even paint anymore. Can't hold a paintbrush." He held up an arthritic claw.

"Were you an artist Sir?" Mycroft knew the Academy was a front, but there had to be one or two real painters in there just to keep the place ticking over.

"We all were back then. We had class. Not this bunch of boy scouts."The man shuddered at the words. "I'll give you some advice, Mr Mycroft Holmes. Treat everything you do like you are creating a work of art. Everything!"

He gripped Mycroft's wrist tightly with his gnarled hand. The eyes buried in the leathery face were bright and dancing as they flicked up and down him. Mycroft was almost certain he was being pictured naked. He took a deep breath.

"Not like the others are you? Something different. Can't quite put my finger on it. Yes. Thirty years ago Mycroft Holmes, you wouldn't have stood a chance!" He gave Mycroft's wrist a final squeeze before sauntering off through the gallery as fast as his stiff ankles would allow.

Mycroft looked closely at the Titian, it seemed unremarkable, a good example of the artists work. Except for that odd little squiggle in the corner an... Mycroft smiled, threw his head back and started to laugh. He was still laughing when the bulky form of Joshua Reynolds loomed large at his side.

"Mycroft, I see you've met Sir Lucifer then!"


End file.
